Steve doesn't make a late night run for it, but it's a near thing.
Instead, that evening found Steve sitting by the poolside with his feet dipped in the cool water dressed in cotton shorts and faded t-shirt. Clint and Coulson had wandered inside about an hour and a half ago. It wasn't his proudest moment, sneaking occasional glances out the window to check when the coast was clear, but at this point Steve just wanted to avoid everyone for as long as possible. He contemplated hiding inside the guesthouse for the next month but the growl in his stomach quickly vetoed that option. He really needed to look into getting some food for the currently empty cupboard and fridge in his kitchen.
Steve kicked at the water, trying to come to grips with his new circumstances. Running away would be easier, but the sooner he showed he couldn't help the sooner he could probably get out of here without inciting any legal reprimand. At least he was getting paid in the meantime and would have something to show for the insanity he was living in. The growling and clenching discomfort in his stomach grew worse. Groaning, Steve stood and headed back towards the main house, determined not to get lost on the way back to the main kitchen. With any luck the occupants of the house would all be asleep by this time and he could snag something from the fridge.
The hope that thought gave him dissipated at the sight of Clint wandering the halls, dressed comfortably in black sweatpants and fitted yellow shirt with a flamboyant, colored logo Steve wasn't familiar with.
"Stevie!" Clint grinned, running over to him. Steve tried not to scowl. The man had been cordial so far and seemed ready to come to his defense earlier.
"What are you doing wandering around so late? No one's seen you since that outburst earlier. Starting to wonder if we need to send out the search parties." Outburst. That was such a mild way to put it.
"Don't worry, I'm not running." Yet. "I got a bit hungry and I didn't have any food in the guesthouse. Was just going to pop in to the kitchen and see if there weren't any leftovers I could heat up."
"Oh you don't need to do that. I'm sure Nat would be happy to make you something fresh." Clint threw his arm over Steve's shoulder and started pulling him in the direction of the kitchen.
"Oh. No. Really. I just wanted to pop in and out. No need to disturb her." Steve made an attempt to duck away from Clint's grip but he just held on tighter. Steve groaned inwardly. So much for avoiding the household.
"Nonsense. Don't tell her I said this," He spoke in a hushed whisper, "but she's kind of a mother hen. She tries to be all aloof but she's really soft and cuddly underneath." Clint shot him a conspiratorial look; as if this was privileged information that Steve should be honored to have shared with him.
Steve just nodded awkwardly, "Rigghhtt…"
"Besides." Clint winked at him. "She's already in the kitchen. It would be kind of hard to avoid her."
Sure enough, when the entered the kitchen the small red haired woman was fussing around with various plates and muttering to herself in Russian. She looked up at their entrance, a momentary hint of confusion in the furrow of her brow.
"What do you want Barton, I'm busy."
"I found the new guy wandering around like a lost puppy. Figured you could make him some treats." He pushed Steve into one of the barstools before claiming one for himself.
"Really, you don't have to." Steve shot Clint an annoyed look at the puppy comment. "I just haven't eaten anything all day and was gonna just grab some leftovers from the fridge. No fuss necessary." Steve was itching to get out of there and back to the comfortable isolation of the guesthouse.
"You need to relax Rogers. We don't bite. Well, maybe James…"Natasha shot Clint a filthy look who just grinned innocently.
"It's not a problem Steve." Natasha spoke up. "I'll make you some baked ziti. You look like you could use some comfort food. Think of it as an apology for how things went down earlier."
"Ooo. That sounds good, make me a plate too." Clint interjected, reaching for a cookie from the jar in the middle of the island.
Natasha looked like she wanted to say something but just grabbed a set of plates from the cupboard and set to work on gathering the ingredients and lighting the stove and oven.
None of them said anything for several minutes, Clint happily munching away at his swiped cookies and Natasha quickly dicing up onions. Steve started tapping on the counter in agitation. This was awkward.
"So…" Steve managed, "How did you two come to work here?" It was a question that had been weighing on him. They were both fairly young. Too young to have been in such prominent house hold positions before Steve assumed the rest of the staff had been dismissed.
"We met Buck on assignment in Iraq." Clint answered at the same time Natasha said, "Friends of the family."
"Clint!" Natasha hissed out, eyes narrowed, pointing her chef knife at Clint dangerously.
"What?" Clint threw his hands up in exasperation. "He was bound to found out eventually. Might as well let him know that everyone on the grounds is a former agent of some kind now. Figure he's been lied to enough as it is for one day."
"Wait." Steve was trying to compile this new bit of intel. "ALL of you are former military? Even Coulson?" Natasha and Clint he could see, the stealthy way they moved and the way they jumped to attention when Barnes had been threatening him. Hell, Fury made complete sense. Only someone who was former agent of some sort could be such a manipulative ass. However, Coulson seemed so unassuming and unlike any military personnel he'd ever met before.
Clint snorted. "Oh definitely Coulson. Former army ranger and one of the deadliest people I've ever met. I'll have to let him know you thought he was just an average civilian. He likes to work that angle to his advantage." He looked proud, a fond smile playing on his lips. Steve should probably re examine his earlier summation of that relationship, especially after the glimpses he caught of them earlier that evening in the pool.
"We're not all former military though. Just Barnes and Coulson. Since were apparently sharing," Natasha shot Clint an annoyed look as she layered the ingredients into a pan, "Clint and I were doing work for a third party as a two man stealth team that assisted Barnes' squad on a few missions. Coulson was our handler. You make friends quick in the trenches." Natasha gave a quirked brow and shrug as if to say, 'what are you going to do.'
"Okay… but how did you guys end up working for him now? And if you all met him in Iraq, how does Fury fit into it?" Steve was quickly getting used to the idea that there was always something going on that everyone was avoiding talking about.
Natasha and Clint shot each other a speculative look, obviously trying to find a way to answer Steve's question that wouldn't reveal whatever they were all hiding.
"Fury…" Natasha paused, "Fury is Fury." Steve wanted to throw something. That wasn't an answer. Sensing his irritation, Clint jumped in, "He's our boss. He was our boss then too. We had all gotten attached to Barnes and when the enemy captured him Fury allowed us to track him down after the U.S. military gave up. Took us too long though." A dark shadow crossed his face at the memory. It was an odd look on the so far consistently grinning, sarcastic man.
Steve suddenly felt bad for bringing up such unpleasant memories. He still hadn't gotten an answer as to why they were Barnes' only staff now, but Steve opted to drop the topic. It didn't really matter anyway. They were obviously loyal to Barnes, not as an employer – and Steve was starting to speculate if that was even accurate – but as a friend they'd fought and bled with. Their bond must run deep if they'd been willing to dedicate five years of their life so far to helping him get better. Even so, Steve felt like he was staring at a nearly completed puzzle but was still missing that last key piece necessary to finish it.
He let the conversation drop back into silence; gratefully accepting the plate of food Natasha handed him several minutes later. He bit into the pasta, nearly moaning. It was amazing. Clint had a bit less decorum, openly groaning in between shoving several forkfuls of food in his mouth.
"Nat. You're an angel in black tights."
"Stop moaning at the table Clint. Save it for Phil. No one needs to see that." Clint flipped her off.
Steve's mouth quirked at the easy camaraderie between the two. He ate another mouthful of pasta, listening to Natasha and Clint banter and felt himself start to really relax for the first time since he'd arrived at the Estate. The situation was still screwed on the surface, but maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. He wasn't itching to run anymore at the very least.
Steve woke the next morning to a pounding on his front door. He twisted in the silk sheets – and by God Steve was going to splurge on a set when he got home – to glance blearily at the bedside clock. It read 5:03. Who the hell needed him this early in the morning? The sun wasn't even out yet. Steve tried to go back to sleep, whoever it was could wait till a decent hour, but the pounding just got more incessant. Cursing, Steve threw back the covers and headed downstairs. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he opened the door yelling at whoever was there. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Early enough for a run don't you think?"
Steve dropped his hand, startled and suddenly more alert. Barnes was standing at his front stoop, cool as you please as if he hadn't just been pounding out the beat to what Steve was pretty sure was Sandman – the cheeky shit - on his front door before six in the morning.
"What?"
"Running. You know. Faster than walking. You use both your legs." Barnes looked like he was about to start demonstrating.
"I know what running is." It was too damn early for this. "What I don't understand is what you're doing here before the sun's even up."
"Thanks to James we got off on the wrong foot yesterday." That was putting it mildly. "If we're going to be spending a lot of time together in the next few weeks we might as well break the ice and get some stuff out in the open. There's a spot I want to show you about a mile from here, but we need to get there before sunrise."
It seemed he was dealing with Bucky at the moment, which relaxed Steve a bit. He contemplated refusing the olive branch and retreating back to his bed and not coming out till he was awake enough to deal with people.
"I thought I wasn't allowed off the premises?"
"Oh. You're not. The spot I want to show you is on the property. Now, are you coming?"
Steve mulled it over. Bucky seemed eager and Steve had to confess, after calming down a bit from the scare the day before, he was curious about Barnes. He caved.
"Fine. Just let me get changed."
Bucky lit up. "Awesome. Oh, and Rogers?" Steve paused in closing the door to look at him curiously. "I love your bedtime look. Very minimalist." Steve glanced down. Shit. He was only wearing boxers. He shut the door quickly, face flushed. Running up the stairs he could just make out Bucky's chortle.
It was like night and day dealing with Bucky versus James.
Minutes later Bucky was leading a now dressed Steve along a man made path. Judging by how he avoided every branch and loose rock as he ran - even in the dark - Steve would guess that he'd run this path fairly often over the years. They'd been running for several minutes when they finally came across a grassy clearing with a small lake.
"Now what?" Steve was breathing heavily. He should really run more. Bucky looked as if he hadn't even broken a sweat.
"Just give it a minute. The sun should be rising soon."
Light started creeping into the clearing, exposing the several flowers on the small lake. As the sun grew higher, and the light grew brighter, the flower buds started to open and bloom. Lotus. It was a beautiful sight. Steve snuck a look at Bucky who was ignoring him in favor of crouching by the edge of the lake, reaching out to one of the budding flowers.
"My mother planted these when I was a kid. Did you know the Lotus is a sacred flower for Buddhists? Depending on the number of petals it's meant to symbolize harmony or spiritual illumination. When it's just a bud it symbolizes potential."
"It's beautiful." Steve replied, voice soft. This place obviously meant a lot to the other man. "Why are you showing it to me?"
"Because I need you to understand and I've always been a visual person. Expressing personal things has never been my strong suit." Bucky plopped onto the log next to Steve, expression serious. "After what happened in Iraq… I feel like I've been wandering in darkness. Like the bud waits each morning for the light, I've been searching for some sort of clarity about what happened to me. James and I… were two sides of the same person but broken. Fractured by whatever happened there. I keep hoping that if we can find the clarity we each need it will fix us, harmonize us, but…"
"Don't you remember?" Steve queried, interrupting Bucky's speech.
Bucky scoffed, "Not even a little bit. Which let me tell you, is worse than remembering."
"How can not remembering months of torture possibly be worse than remembering it?"
Bucky threw a twig into the water, agitated. "It's not just the torture I don't remember. Large chunks of my time as a regular soldier are gone too. My body is covered in scars and I can't remember how I got them. I can barely remember how I lost my damn arm." He glared down at the useless stub.
"I created James during the torture to protect myself and for a time it was easier that way. Not remembering and letting him take the brunt of the violent memories. Whenever the memories start bleeding in or he feels I'm over agitated he takes over before I can remember or stop him. The problem is he gets a bit… volatile." Steve could attest to that. He refrained from commenting on the violent personality and took a seat on the cold, wet, log beside Bucky. He looked so lost, unlike the smiling charming man Steve had started to associate with this side of him.
"Do you know what its like to have a fear and an instinct but no idea why you have it?" Bucky queried, staring out at the lake, fidgeting with a branch in his one hand. "For two years after I got back I couldn't go near water for fear of drowning. Taking showers were a nightmare." Bucky scoffed bitterly. "Even now I can only wade into the water up to my waist before I start to panic. We don't celebrate Fourth of July anymore cause the sound of fireworks has me hitting the floor and I don't. know. WHY." Bucky's voice cracked, and the branch he had been fidgeting with crunched under his grip.
Steve didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine how lost he must feel. Having all the damage of war with none of the memories and no reference from which to really start healing. To be unable to go into public for fear something might trigger an unknown response and James comes out swinging in defense. To be imprisoned in your own mind. It was a terrible curse.
They sat side by side for several minutes, not speaking, just watching the sunrise and listening to the sounds of nature. Steve was starting to come to grips with what a total ass he was being about Bucky's situation when the other man spoke up.
"I'm sorry by the way." Steve startled.
"For what? James? I know I've been freaking out a bit, but after what I've been told in the last twenty-four hours I'm not even sure if I can really blame him. Still not eager for a repeat encounter but I can understand his logic. I think."
Bucky smiled at him with a toothy grin, dark blue eyes softening, "You're sweet Rogers. I can see why Fury picked you. You're a good guy to have stuck around." Steve wanted to protest that he was only there and hadn't made a run for it because Fury had practically black mailed him, but a small part of him was starting to want to stay. Not just for the story either. He just wasn't sure what for.
"I'm still sorry though. Fury probably didn't fill you on my condition and baited you with a big exclusive tell all story about the 'Prince of New York.'" Bucky actually made air quotes. "Finally, he dropped the bomb on you that you're supposed to use your 'journalism savvy' to interview me and James and create a record to help me remember so I can fix what's wrong with me."
"I'm not a therapist." Steve felt like he'd had to remind people of this a lot more than strictly necessary.
"Oh I know. And thank God." Bucky actually looked relieved not to be dealing with a therapist.
"Fury mentioned your aversion to therapists."
"Let's just say there were attempts made to bring in therapists and they were all a total bust."
"Why?"
"James." As if that was the answer to everything going wrong with his life. Which, Steve considered, it just might be.
"James hates therapists. He doesn't like how they poke around in your head. I can only assume there was a great deal of that during my six months of torture."
"So Fury called in a journalist? We don't exactly have a reputation for not exploiting a story." This is the thing that kept bugging Steve about the whole assignment.
Bucky gave out a sharp bark of laughter. "You weren't hired just because you were a journalist. Fury told me there were things in your background that indicated you were trustworthy and were too noble to exploit my situation or run away from someone in need." Steve pointedly didn't mention that he'd almost done exactly that. It probably wouldn't help the situation. "The fact that you're a writer is honestly just a plus and a reason to draw you in."
"That. That is just manipulative and crazy."
Bucky shrugged. "That's Fury. He's really not above manipulation and we were running out of options."
Steve considered this. "Hey, Bucky? What exactly did Fury tell you about my history?"
Bucky thought it over. "Not much… basically just what I already told you. He said you were trustworthy so that was good enough for me."
"You trust him that much? Even when you just said he's manipulative?"
"Of course." Bucky gave him a look as though that should have been obvious. "He's one of the few good guys I know."
Steve could debate that.
Bucky stood, wiping the leaves off the back of his baggy red sweatpants. "Alright, enough of this melodrama Rogers. We should probably head back. I'm starting to get hungry."
The sun had completely risen while they'd been talking. The soft morning light highlighted the undertones of Bucky's dark hair. Rather than running, the two walked back along the path in companionable silence. Bucky seemed to be mulling something over in his mind, full lips quirked in a thoughtful frown.
When they reached the glass doors heading into the main house Bucky paused and shot Steve a speculative look.
"Hey. You're a writer Steve. Tell me. What's gonna be story? What tale are you gonna spin about the fractured James Buchanan Barnes? Is he the soldier, the monster? Or the weak prince that couldn't take care of himself?"
It was a heavy question, but there was no good way to answer that question directly so Steve tried for an indirect response. "Your story will be whatever you want it to be." It was a cop out answer but it was still true. He'd long since given up hope for happy endings himself, but since he was going to be sticking around for awhile Steve made the resolution to help this man find a happy ending to his story. How ever long it took.